


When The Last Restraint Is Gone

by Lustmord (OurPaleCompanion)



Series: In Training [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Gothic, Spanking, Victoriana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurPaleCompanion/pseuds/Lustmord
Summary: Mr. Willoughby feels like a little light reading; he just doesn't fancy being the one doing the reading.





	When The Last Restraint Is Gone

 

The gas-lamp flickered and spluttered, sending shadows dancing erratically across the paper. Violet frowned; the faulty lamp had been thwarting her efforts to finish her work all evening. Spidery, tentative letters crawled from one side to the other, bunched together in strings of hurried effort while the light had been steady. It wasn’t good enough, and she was running out of time; she’d have to answer for it, one way or another.

The silver bell on the wall rung high and clear, a tinkling soft enough to have been mistaken for branches brushing against the window-pane. Her body reacted before her ears even registered hearing it; that primal, instinctive flinch that made the arches of her feet tighten. She set down her pen and got up from the chair, the knot in her throat pulling her cheeks taut with suspense.

Before leaving she spent as much time as she could spare checking her reflection in the mirror; long, dark-blue dress, brogues, and her hair tight back into a tight bun. It was acceptable for his standards. Feeling her stomach tighten and almost drop, she left her room and started the long walk down the cold, unlit corridor to the solitary beacon of light far at the end.

Mr. Willoughby was seated, as he always was, in the leather wing-back chair facing the window, staring out towards the wild, untended garden. Violet knocked and entered, not waiting for a response; he never did bother to admit her. As she closed the door behind her she felt instantly the relief of the roaring fire, setting her frozen hands to sting with the sudden warmth. “You called, Sir,” she addressed him, her hands behind her back and eyes to the floor.

The silence hung over them for an uncomfortable few seconds. The clink of a glass as Mr. Willoughby set his brandy down on the cabinet, and he replied at length, “Yes,” letting the silence settle back over them. Violet’s mind set to whirring in these fragile, dangerous moments; what was he thinking as he sat there, not facing her, only his drooping arm visible? Why was he so silent? Was he formulating new uses for her? Had he already made up his mind and was simply enjoying imagining her in her ancillary pose? If so, why did he not watch? Was the idea of her waiting patiently for his merest attention attractive to him? If it was, thought Violet, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

“You’ll be reading to me tonight,” came that soft, cultured drawl, barely audible or distinguishable from the crackle of the fireplace. “Poetry. You like poetry, don’t you, Violet?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, unsure whether to venture any more than this. He enjoyed that she thought for herself, that much had always been evident; but it seemed sometimes he did not like to be reminded she existed outside of the four walls of the study.

“The book on the mantelpiece,” he continued, speaking as if he had not even heard her reply and was merely resuming after an overly-long pause, “pick it up. Turn to page forty-four.” A rustle of cloth as he adjusted his posture, flexing his hand. “There’s a mark on the page. Begin there.”

Violet paused, nervous of moving before his instructions were complete. Gingerly she walked over to the fireplace, her brogues tapping warmly on the varnished oak floor, and took the book, a particularly beautiful gilt-edged blue volume. Turning to the desired page her mouth opened slightly as she recognised the passage almost instantly. The heat of the room had robbed her mouth of moisture; swallowing hard she croaked out the first stanza.

_"Evening by evening,_  
_Among the brookside rushes,_  
_Laura bow’d her head to hear,_  
_Lizzie veil’d her blushes._  
_Crouching close together,_  
_In the cooling weather,_  
_With clasping arms and cautioning lips,_  
_With tingling cheeks and finger tips…"_

“Kneel,” came the command, said with more force than before, from the figure hidden in the chair. Violet stopped reading and slowly took to her knees; the hardwood floor was punishing and her dress not thick enough to cushion her from the discomfort. After a pause to be sure she had complied, Mr. Willoughby breathed, “Continue.”

_"Lie close, Laura said,_  
_Pricking up her golden head._  
_We must not look at goblin-men,_  
_We must not buy their fruits._  
_Who knows upon what soil they fed_  
_Their hungry, thirsty roots?"_

As if on cue the chair creaked, its occupant taking to his feet and stretching himself up to his full height. Violet stammered, her mouth opening and closing dumbly as he turned and advanced on her, his steel-grey eyes fixing upon her trembling lips.

_"'Come buy’, call the goblins,_  
_Hobbling down the glen._  
_‘Oh,’ cried Lizzie, ‘Laura, Laura,_  
_You should not peep at goblin-men.’_  
_Lizzie covered up her eyes,_  
_Cover’d close lest they should look,_  
_Laura rear’d her glossy head_  
_And whispered like the restless brook-"_

“Bend.” His voice was silk and leaden; soft and persuasive, and implacable in its authority. Gulping Violet bent forward, further and further, until she had to support herself on her elbows, the fire roasting her entire left hand side and glistening brightly off the gilt edges of the page. A sigh like a dying man’s gasp escaped Mr. Willoughby’s lips, and instinctively she flicked her eyes up to meet his; his black hair was showing the first traces of grey, and he had not shaved in some days, it seemed. As propriety reasserted itself she blinked and returned her eyes to the book, continuing with a wavering voice as Mr. Willoughby began to tread around her.

_"‘Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,_  
_Down the glen tramp little men._  
_One hauls a basket,_  
_One bears a plate,_  
_One lugs a golden dish_  
_Of many pounds weight._  
_How fair the vine must grow,_  
_Whose grapes are so luscious,_  
_How warm the wind must blow_  
_Through those fruit-bushes-"_

Violet’s dress swept up through the air with a swift flutter, causing her to jerk her head up and gasp. Willoughby straightened behind her, gazing at the pure-white bloomers and striped black stockings he had exposed. Violet’s cheeks flushed pink and it was all she could do to keep reading as she knelt, the beginnings of her undoing at foot.

_"‘No,’ said Lizzie, ‘No, no, no,_  
_Their offers should not charm us,_  
_Their evil gifts would harm us.’_  
_She thrust a dimpled finger_  
_In each ear, shut eyes and ran-"_

She could no longer read. Her throat fell numb, her tongue quivered uncontrollably, as she felt his long, bony, rough-tipped fingers pull at her bloomers and leave them bunched around her knees. Her breath came in gasps as she felt the almost unbearable warmth of the fire against her naked, pale skin, exposing her to heat in areas she had not remembered being warm in ages. “Keep reading, Violet,” came that velvety whisper, soft and soothing even as those rough hands ran a spine-tingling course across her buttocks.

_"Curious Laura chose to linger,_  
_Wondering at each merchant-man._  
_One had a cat’s face-"_

She let out a piercing squeak, quickly stifled out of instinct; Willoughby’s hand whipped back from her rear, already stinging and beginning to redden. She suppressed a choking cry and went on,

_"One whisk’d a tail,_  
_One tramp’d at a rat’s pace-"_

She lurched forward and let out a crying moan as the other hand came down, tanning her other buttock mercilessly. She clenched her thighs and bit her lip as the heat seemed to spread to between her legs, her muscles shivering with something very close to excitement.

_"One crawl’d like a snail,_  
_One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,_  
_One like a ratel tumbled hurry-skurry-"_

The book almost fell from her fingers as the sensation shot through her like lightning; the firm caress of his fingers across the heat of her crotch, pulsing and massaging. She opened her legs unconsciously, rearing up out of instinct, letting out a moan of pained pleasure. Her breaths came fast and unabashed as she began to grind backwards onto his hand, conscious only of a need, an itch to be scratched. She was brought out of her reverie by another bony hand, gripping her tightly-wound hair and forcing her to look straight forwards once more, loosening the bun to the point of its total collapse in the process. As her long, brown hair spilled out down her shoulders she picked the book back up and struggled against her growing passions to complete the passage;

_"She heard a voice like voice of doves,_  
_Cooing all together,_  
_They sounded kind and full of loves_  
_In the pleasant weather."_

The last syllable fell from her lips in little more than a choked sigh; in that moment she had heard that tell-tale sound of buttons unfastening and folding cloth. Another moment and he was in her; she could no longer keep her hold on the book and it fell to the floor with a thump, her arms straightening to let her press her hands into the floor and throw her head back, sending her hair cascading down her back as she moaned helplessly. His strong hands gripped her hips powerfully, pulling her back with every thrust, digging into the gap between her pelvis bones. All sense of propriety was gone in the heat of the moment; she moaned, bucked, cried out and ground back with every ounce of her strength, giving herself up willingly to this invader. As his thrusts quickened and his sharp hipbones slammed further and harder into her backside, she gasped throatily, preparing herself for for his climax; she let out a yelp with each of the last few thrusts, moaning in ways a girl of her breeding should not have even known how to voice. He pressed deep into her and exclaimed violently as he came, shuddering and jerking as he filled her. Violet groaned and curled her toes, silently shaking with her own climax, a mixture of ecstasy, guilt and terror. She spasmed slightly as he pulled out of her, his head sending an electric shock through her as it left her body.

“Finish it,” he moaned, between gasps, getting his breath back, “finish the piece.” Violet lay on her hands and knees, moaning and panting, her thighs aching as she gulped and recalled the final piece from memory.

_"Laura stretched her gleaming neck_  
_Like a rush-imbedded swan,_  
_Like a lily from the beck,_  
_Like a moonlit poplar branch,_  
_Like a vessel at the launch,_  
_When the last restraint is gone."_

Opening her eyes, Violet’s breath caught in her throat to find herself face-to-face with his rod, held outstretched. Looking up to see him proper for the first time all evening, his grey eyes bored into hers, wordlessly commanding her. Opening her mouth she took him down to the hilt, moaning against him, cleaning him with her lips and tongue, before retracting and gulping.

“Thank you, Violet,” Mr. Willoughby said softly, the merest hint of arrogance shot through his calm, heavy words. “You may leave me now.” Without another word he turned and sunk back into his chair, staring back out at the garden, leaving Violet to her state. Without a sound she stood up, pulling her bloomers back up over her aching hindquarters, and slowly backed out of the room, leaving the glow of the fire and retiring to her room, as the residual warmth within her began to fade.

 


End file.
